


Down

by yeaka



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sickfic, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-27 01:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2673200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus tends to a sick Esca.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This isn't historically accurate. Set after the film. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Eagle or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Even like this, he’s beautiful, though Marcus feels poor for thinking it. Esca’s been in pain every minute since the sickness took him, and it shows in the subtle strain beneath his skin, the small tremours and the way he curls in on himself, wrapped up in Marcus’ bed. All the doors to the veranda are open to bring in the fresh air, but it beads on Esca’s forehead and turns his pale hue clammy all the same. Marcus closes the door to the house behind himself and tries to quell the usual enjoyment at the sight of Esca in his bed. 

The closer he gets, the more he sees the trouble in his lover’s back, and it hurts him too. Esca is brave, strong, tries to hide it, but the two of them are far beyond secrets from one another. Marcus sees it all. Marcus sets the water basin on the wooden nightstand and takes his seat on the mattress, hoping he hasn’t disturbed any sleep. 

Esca leans back to look over his shoulder, eyes hazy from the sickness. There’s a puffiness around them, lines below, light hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Marcus can’t help but wonder if this is how he himself looked when he was weak with his leg, and if Esca thought him still anywhere near as handsome. But of course, they weren’t everything they are now, back then.

“Can it spread?” Esca mumbles. His voice is rickety and hollow. The physician didn’t even want to touch the Briton ex-slave, but Marcus _made_ him. Marcus had his uncle secure the best help Rome could offer. He shakes his head, and Esca’s eyes shift slowly in and out of focus. When he licks his lips, Marcus still wants to kiss them. “I will not make you sick with it?”

“He said it’s not that kind of sickness.” Thank heavens, or Marcus’ uncle would never allow them to be alone like this. He already overlooks so much. He’s offered new body-slaves, but Marcus won’t have any of it, and he lifts his hand to gently mop the sweat off Esca’s forehead. He’s surprised to find it deathly cold. Esca leans into the touch, crooning, a weak, needy noise he would never make at full strength. It’s as painful to hear as it is enticing, and Marcus bends to place a chaste kiss on his lover’s forehead, demonstrating there is no danger. He murmurs into Esca’s flesh, “You will be better in a few days. I promise.”

Esca licks his lips again and mutters, “Lie with me until then.” He tries to roll onto his back, but Marcus’ body is stopping him, and he has to shuffle, twisting below the thin sheet, while Marcus scoots to the edge. 

“Wouldn’t that make you too hot?”

“No, no. I’m cold now.” He’s clearly trying to suppress tremours; he’s still shaking, but Marcus presses the back of his hand to Esca’s forehead again to be sure. It’s frigid. He drags his hand down Esca’s face, presses into the dip of Esca’s collarbone, traces the neckline of Esca’s tunic. All sweat-slick but icy. Marcus’ heart aches. Esca whispers, “Marcus, I want you to lie with me.”

Marcus wants that too. Even if the sickness could spread, he would rather them face it together. But instead, he turns for the nightstand and insists, “Drink first. I brought you water.” He picks the bowl up; he was prepared to drag little bits of water along Esca’s skin to cool him down, but evidently that’s no longer a good idea.

When he turns back to the bed with it, Esca’s hiked himself up on his elbows. He’s staring up at Marcus’ face while Marcus places the basin over him, holds it up and helps guide it into his fingers, to his mouth. When Marcus tilts it, Esca drinks, little rivulets escaping out the corners of his mouth. Marcus holds the bowl until Esca makes a choking noise, and then he brings it away again, replacing it back on the table. 

Wiping off his mouth, Esca muses, “You act like my slave.”

Marcus says simply, “I am yours.” Though Esca gives him a sharp look, they both must know it’s true. Whatever the past left behind, they still belong to one another on too deep a level to untie. Marcus fiddles his sandals off before he lifts the sheet to slip below. 

He wants to throw his larger body around Esca, blanket him and protect him from the world, but Marcus doesn’t want to crush his fragile lover under his weight. He stays respectfully against the edge of the narrow cot and lets Esca snuggle up to him, curl into him, clutch at the fabric of his tunic and burrow into the hollow of his neck and shoulder. 

Marcus pets through Esca’s sweat-matted hair as he drifts back out of consciousness. He’s a beautiful, powerful man, and Marcus vows to keep him safe until the morning, and for every other morning after.


End file.
